


Missed Cues

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Asexual Character, Fuck yeah sexually proficient asexuals, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, follow-up piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two months since Grantaire woke up to Combeferre in his kitchen, a dark bruise still forming just under his jaw, and despite having avoided both Combeferre and Enjolras ever since, all it takes is a single text to send him into a panic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed Cues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratedgrandr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/gifts).



             It had been almost two months since Grantaire had woken up to Combeferre in his kitchen, a dark bruise still forming just under his jaw, when he been startled awake at three in the afternoon to find a single text staring up at him from the dingy screen of his mobile phone. A single, brief text, only four words long.

              _We need to talk._

             It was from Combeferre.

             It took Grantaire approximately a quarter of a second to feel himself start to panic. It took a hot shower and three mugs of coffee that were more whisky than actual coffee before he managed to send a response.

              _Can you come over here?_

             The response was almost immediate.

              _I’ll be there in fifteen._

             Grantaire blanched and put the phone down, resting his head on his arms. What time was it? He had lost his sense of time again, and the past week had been a blur of words and colour and sound, marked only by Jehan’s comings and goings as he prepared for some retreat he had been planning for months.

             It felt like hours, though on some level, he knew better, before there was a gentle rap at the door and he opened it to find Combeferre standing there, his eyes still slightly squinted behind his glasses from the wind; his gloved hands, when Grantaire glanced down, gripping his leather bag tightly.

             Noticing Grantaire’s eyes on his bag, he shook his head as if to say _‘No, I haven’t got any’_ and immediately Grantaire’s eyes snapped back to his face, his features colouring slightly as if to protest before he dropped his gaze to the floor and stepped out of the way. Closing the door behind them, he turned back around to look at Combeferre, who hadn’t sat down, but instead stood watching him, bag still clutched in his hand.

             Grantaire swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Finally, his lips managed to form words. “You wanted to talk?”

             Combeferre nodded almost woodenly, but sat down on the sofa, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched Grantaire edge around the crooked coffee table to the other end of the cushion.

             “He knows.”

             Combeferre’s reaction to Grantaire’s half question, half statement was immediate; he laughed, and Grantaire felt himself shudder, his fingers fumbling in the pocket of the jacket thrown over the armrest for his hipflask.

             “He always knew, Grantaire.” Combeferre raised an eyebrow at his expression. “Did you honestly think he wouldn’t know immediately whose mouth it was?” He shook his head and shrugged a little, adding, “That’s not why I’m here.”

             Twisting the cap back on the flask, Grantaire’s eyes screwed up as he swallowed, then licked his lips, his eyes drifting to the other man’s face questioningly.

             “Look,” Combeferre took a breath, then met Grantaire’s gaze, “I made a mistake; I –”

             “No, I get it.” Grantaire stood up, tossing the flask back down onto the sofa, his throat constricting almost painfully around his words. “You got drunk, fucked your best friend’s ex – a mistake, I ge–”

             Before he could finish, Combeferre had sprung to his feet, long fingers – bare fingers, his gloves must have come off while he was drinking – curled around Grantaire’s wrist. “I should have checked on you that morning – made sure that you were still okay with everything.” He let go and sat back down, unwilling to look at him. “Clearly you weren’t. I’m sorry.”

             There was a long moment of silence, followed a quiet thud as Grantaire let himself fall back down onto the cushions beside him. There was another still before he exhaled shakily and whispered. “Now what?”

             Combeferre’s response was barely audible, even in the stillness of the room, and his lips hardly moved as he spoke. “You haven’t spoken to me – or to Enjolras actually, since September.” When Grantaire didn’t respond, he added. “Is that it?”

             Not looking up, Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, fingers twisting in one of the last of the dark blond curls left over from the perm he had attempted that summer. “What is it that you want, ‘Ferre? Exactly, I mean?”

             Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Combeferre blink once, twice, three times before answering. “I came to ask you that question, actually.”

             Grantaire frowned, his gaze slipping back down to where his hands lay in his lap, the familiar wellings of panic fluttering around the edges of his brain. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he felt Combeferre’s fingertips touch his wrist lightly and something like a jolt of panic shot through him, leaving him rooted to the spot until, rubbing his thumb along the ridges of his hand, his voice whispering words that he couldn’t quite make out, Combeferre managed to match their breathing and the sensation slowly dissipated, bringing his words back into focus.

             “–orry, I shouldn’t have sprung things on you like that. It’s okay. It’s not something you should have to worry about right now. I know you’re still…” Combeferre trailed off when he noticed the way that Grantaire was looking at him, eyes slightly unfocused and disoriented, but following, his dark eyebrows knitted in focus. He took a deep breath. “What do you want to do? About…this? All of it?”

             “What do you want to do?” Grantaire echoed the words back to him, the fingernails of one hand starting to dig into their cuticles absently.

             “I –” Combeferre started to sigh in frustration, but then paused, a flicker of inspiration flashing across his face, and carefully lifting Grantaire’s curled hand, kissed across his knuckles, brushing each one over his lips before looking back at the other man and squeezing his fingers just slightly.

             Sighing heavily, Grantaire slumped against Combeferre’s shoulder. “Does he know?” The tone of his voice left no question as to who ‘he’ was, and he felt Combeferre hum against his hand in response.

             “Yes.” Then: “We’ve talked about it at great length already.”

             There was a stifling silence, followed by Combeferre’s breath, slightly warm and still smelling of the peppermint tea he had had that morning against his ear and Grantaire had to actively fight the shiver that threatened to jerk him away.

             “Look, R…” Grantaire closed his eyes at the shift to the familiar nickname, but made no move to pull away. “Look. I just need to know what you need from me. If you just needed someone then, that’s fine. But I do need to know.”

             “Why?” Grantaire’s voice was barely audible even in the relative silence of the flat, and for a moment Combeferre felt himself flounder.

             “Because…” Shaking his head, he pulled away. “Never mind.”

             “’Ferre, look.” Grantaire licked his lips again. “I’m not going to…I’m not over it.”

             Combeferre nodded quietly, “I know.”

             “I don’t know if I ever will be, ya know?”

             There was a moment that felt like an eternity, and it wasn’t until Combeferre’s brow smoothed out and he closed his eyes that Grantaire realised he had been holding his breath. “I don’t expect it of you.”

             At this, Grantaire’s head snapped up and Combeferre shrugged. “Some people never do, that’s just a part of life – doesn’t make them less whole or worth it in my book. Just means there’re some things I have to keep in mind.” When he didn’t receive an answer, he rested a hand on Grantaire’s knee briefly. “If you’d like me to go, I will.”

             There was a long silence and then Combeferre got up and started for the door, only to pause with his hand on the knob when he heard his name uttered, just barely above a whisper.

             “’Ferre.” Grantaire repeated himself, standing up shakily from the sofa and crossing to the door, only to bury his face in Combeferre’s shoulder, murmuring. “Did Jehan ask you to? The first time? Or now?”

             He could almost hear the other man frowning, but then he was replying, his lips only just brushing Grantaire’s neck, and without thinking, he pressed closer. “No!” Combeferre sounded almost affronted, “Of course not. He asked me to come the first time, yes…but nothing else.” He paused for a moment, the beginnings of a chuckle catching in his throat. “Actually he was a little sore at me after – thought I might have made things worse. Did I?”

             Grantaire made a small noise against his shirt, then added, “No one asked you to do that? Any of it?”

             Another soft huff of air brushed over Grantaire’s neck and he felt Combeferre’s lips curl into an indulgent smile. “Only you did, R.”

             Swallowing hard, Grantaire pulled away, watching him curiously for a moment before licking his lips. “Do it again?”

             Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Do what exactly?”

             Grantaire made an annoyed noise and folded his arms, and laughing, Combeferre leaned in and brushed his lips against Grantaire’s, a small sound of surprise escaping him as Grantaire’s teeth caught his lip briefly, fingers winding into his shirt and tugging him closer. Half-smiling against the other’s lips, he allowed his own fingers to curl into the shaggy hair covering the base of Grantaire’s neck, his words murmured against his lips. “Are you sure you want this?”

             Grantaire’s dry chuckle wafted the faint scent of coffee and cheap whisky over his lips. “I asked for it, didn’t I?” He paused a moment. “Do you?”

             Wheeling around to press Grantaire’s back to the door, Combeferre kissed him again, lingering for a moment before dipping his head to press his lips along the curve of Grantaire’s neck, smiling at the sharp intake of breath and the sudden grip of fingers on his arm.

             “Fucking _hell_ ‘Ferre.”

             Pressing another kiss, this time to one of the sharp angles of his jaw, Combeferre smiled against the fine dusting of stubble coating Grantaire’s skin. “Does that answer your question?”

             A soft huff of air leaving his lips, Grantaire turned his head to kiss him again until, resting their foreheads together, Combeferre murmured, “When is Jehan due home?”

             “Mmn,” Grantaire searched his memory, “Dunno. A week maybe?”

             At this, Combeferre raised an eyebrow and a shiver raced through his body, only to be replaced with a sudden jolt of discomfort as he shifted and found the doorknob digging into his side, and without thinking, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

             “We should move somewhere else.” He felt his neck flush and scowled inwardly. “Somewhere more comfortable?”

             A smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, Combeferre pulled away enough for Grantaire to move away from the door and almost sheepishly edge towards his bedroom until, shaking his head, Combeferre gave him an amused look as if to say ‘I know the way, you know,’ and colouring, he bolted through the doorway.

             By the time Combeferre came through the door, Grantaire had managed to strip down to his boxers, no arrangement of his gangly limbs able to make the loose fabric lay in any way that could possibly be considered modest, even once he gave up and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as with what seemed to be intentional slowness, Combeferre undressed. Swallowing hard, Grantaire watched as he toed off shoes and socks and unbuttoned his shirt, pausing only when, with a small, impatient noise, Grantaire reached out and hooked his fingers in one of his belt loops, pulling him closer and taking over the process himself. Fingers working Combeferre’s belt buckle loose, he pressed kiss after kiss against the skin of Combeferre’s abdomen, a small noise, half surprise and half satisfaction leaving his throat as the other man’s fingers slid into his hair, nails grazing his scalp ever-so-slightly as his hand pushed past Combeferre’s trouser zipper to feel him through his boxer briefs, and grinning, he scraped his teeth over the ridge of his hipbone in response to the barely audible gasp that slipped from his lips as Grantaire’s fingers curled and teased through the thin fabric.

             It was with a faint smile and the rustle of fabric that Combeferre pulled away enough to slip out of the rest of his clothes and join Grantaire on the bed, leaning in to kiss him as he did so. Leaning back, Grantaire pulled Combeferre with him until his back hit the duvet, a startled noise leaving his lips as Combeferre’s knee pressed firmly between his thighs, the fingers of one hand tracing around the outline of his erection through the loose cotton while the other tugged the boxers low on his hips, the sharp angles of his pelvis standing out against the other man’s fingertips. Combeferre’s lips travelled easily over the slightly odd curvature of his breastbone to nuzzle his throat before easing off enough to slide his boxers off of his hips, the slow pull of the fabric coaxing a half-breathless groan from Grantaire’s throat.

             Pulling back, Combeferre moved away and up the bed, his back against the headboard, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips at the perturbed sound that left Grantaire’s lips as he scrambled up to meet him, only to have the breath snatched from his lungs by Combeferre’s fingers skating over his ribs, thumbs following the angles of his hips and levering him closer, drawing their bodies flush against one another.

             Another small noise leaving his mouth, Grantaire found his fingers clutching at the other’s shoulders, every nerve in his body seeming to fire at once as Combeferre’s lips kissed, then sucked, then nipped at his neck, his palms warm where they pressed against Grantaire’s skin, urging their hips together. Taking over from Combeferre’s hands, he rolled his hips against the other man’s experimentally, his face flushing at the sound that was breathed against his ear and the accompanying flutter of eyelashes and press of fingertips into his hips as they brushed against each other. It only took a second, more calculated motion to send one of Combeferre’s hands skating into his hair and the other dropping down to wrap agile fingers around them both, drowning Grantaire’s low whimper with his own lips.

             “Fuckin’ hell, ‘Ferre.” Grantaire gasped against Combeferre’s mouth, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip before slipping down to press frenzied kisses over his jaw and graze his teeth on the planes of his throat, a purr rumbling in his own throat as Combeferre’s fingers stuttered before curling, his palm rolling over the tip of Grantaire’s erection and allowing the tips of his fingers to graze behind it.

             There was something dizzying, he thought as Combeferre responded to the sudden, shameless buck of Grantaire’s hips against his own with another kiss, about the way that Combeferre read him like one of his science fiction novels, taking apart with the same ease with which he unravelled a plot and turned pages with the same careful flicks of his fingertips that left Grantaire’s lungs breathless and desperate for air. His fingers dug into Combeferre’s thighs where he could reach them, then slid up onto his hips as another delicate slide of his fingers sent Grantaire pressing closer, trying futilely to wrap his legs around his hips.

             He was back on his back again when Combeferre’s tongue teased up the line of his throat and with a careful shifting of his hips, arched Grantaire’s back and pulled a soft, strangled noise from his lips as he came, fingers gripping Combeferre’s biceps tightly. He couldn’t remember after that, if Combeferre finished or not, only the blur of the other man’s lips over his collarbones, and the brush of his auburn hair against his pulse before he pulled back to look down at him, a small, satisfied smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

             His eyes hooded, Grantaire let his eyes travel from Combeferre’s face down his body, but then, flushing, he twisted to lean off of the side of the bed and grabbed for his shed boxers, ignoring the other’s eyebrow raise as he used them to clean up, mumbling, “Laundry’s on Sunday anyways.”

             At this, Combeferre laughed – just barely audibly – as he stretched, and for a moment Grantaire froze in place with half of him still swung over the edge of the bed, his eyes rooted to the swooping arch of the other man’s spine and the almost catlike grace with which he settled back down against the battered pillows at the headboard. It wasn’t until the fabric slipped from his fingers that he suddenly snapped back to himself, losing his balance and very nearly falling off the side of the bed – only a scrambling of limbs keeping him in place and then pulling him back onto the bed, a sheepish grin stealing across his features at the look on Combeferre’s face. Grin broadening, he slipped back up the mattress to curl himself around him, pressing lingering, almost playful kisses into the corner of Combeferre’s mouth and along his jaw until he was stopped by Combeferre’s palm suddenly cupping his jaw, eyes watching him with something between bemusement and tenderness as he immediately leaned into his hand, nuzzling the heel of his palm and allowing himself to sink against him.

             “Still a yes?” Combeferre’s voice sounded almost hazy through the rush of blood in Grantaire’s ears, but his response came almost unbidden to his lips.

             “Oh yes.” He could barely hear his own words, but he was pretty sure he knew what he was saying. “Definitely a yes.”

 

             When Grantaire woke the next morning, he was in bed alone, and groaning, he winced at sore muscles and the cool spot next to him. Eventually, he willed himself to sit up and look around, trying in vain to avoid looking for signs of Combeferre’s presence – signs that were nowhere to be found outside of the slight hint of tiredness still hovering in his muscles and the only vaguely uncomfortable tenderness of his bottom lip.

             It was as he was giving up and allowing himself to flop back onto his back that the door cracked open and Combeferre entered dressed in a pair of too-short sweats, two bowls of dry cereal in hand and an apologetic smile on his lips.

             “There wasn’t any milk. Sorry.”

             Grantaire blinked, his brain struggling to wrap itself around this new development before finally spitting out a reply.

             “No, ‘scool – I don’t use milk anyways.”

             Settling back down onto the bed, Combeferre passed him a bowl before starting in on his own, being careful not to spill any onto the duvet, and staring at him, Grantaire simply held his bowl in his hands. Combeferre had already showered – using his shampoo, and there was something suddenly intoxicating about the mingled scent of Combeferre and the cheap shampoo that Grantaire kept in the shower, but Combeferre didn’t seem to even flinch when Grantaire burrowed his face in his neck for several minutes before even looking twice at his breakfast, instead carding his fingers through the other’s hair absently while the other focused on attempting to handle dry cereal gracefully.

              _I could get used to this._ The thought hovered at the back of Grantaire’s mind. _I shouldn’t…but I could._


End file.
